


The Laughing Stocks of Europe

by magicalxn



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, French Revolution, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Mild Gore, also robespierre and marie antoinette, mentions of england prussia and austria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalxn/pseuds/magicalxn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It may sound silly to you, but I believe it is my destiny to walk hand-in-hand with you to greatness."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Laughing Stocks of Europe

**Author's Note:**

> THERE NEEDS TO BE MORE STUFF WITH NAPOLEON AND FRANCE BEING THE BEST OF BUDS HONESTLY SO HERE'S THIS

A young man wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the army stepped carefully around a puddle of blood, barking an order back at the soldiers trailing after him to be wary of bodies. During these past few years, a revolution had taken its toll on the nation of France, and finding dead bodies littering the streets was no longer an uncommon occurrence. Of course, the commander himself wasn't fazed by the blood-stained cobblestone, having witnessed countless executions and putting down small revolts on behalf of the government himself, but a few members of his platoon weren't as experienced as he was and would be a bit more squeamish.

He led the group of men, taking a few more cautious steps around a corner, though surprisingly, found no bodies. The sight that greeted him was a startling amount of blood, the gray cobblestone before him glistening with the substance, the walls of the buildings lining the street painted with it. There was so much blood, dark red puddles had formed in the cracks and holes of the road, almost as if earlier there had been a red-tinted rain.

He took note of the bits of flesh clinging to the jagged stones that jutted out from the street, hardly moving even when he heard the gagging of one of his men behind him. "You all stay here," he ordered, his eyes drifting to the entrance of a narrow alleyway, where the stains of the blood seemed to lead to, forming a path that suggested the owner of the blood had been dragged. "I will investigate this myself." With that, he broke away from his group, never once looking back as he stepped around the blood as best as he could, approaching the alleyway and peering into it.

It was dimly lit, even with the afternoon sun shining down harshly on the land, and the lieutenant could barely make out a figure lying in a crumpled heap on the street. He took a few steps forward and noticed that this was where the blood seem to come from; the streaks stopped at the feet of the body and the pool beneath the torso was dark red. With a shock, the commander realized that this man was wearing the uniform of the army – and not just any uniform, but the uniform of an esteemed general. Even soaked in blood, the ornate decorations of the clothing were plain to see, so many in number and so intricate in design it led the commander to believe that he must've been very important. What had happened to this general? Had he angered the people to the point that they would violently murder him and throw his body into an alleyway?

The commander wanted to know the identity of this man. He should have some form of identification on him, most likely in the pockets of his uniform. He took a few steps forward, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell of the blood. The general's hair was matted and brown, though it was possible that he may have had dark blond hair in life, and it had simply been wetted and dyed with blood. It went to about his shoulders, and whether or not it curled with the wetness of the red liquid or naturally, he did not know. He took a few steps forward, carefully bending to get a closer look at the general when he stopped short, drawing back.

The realization that this man had not only angered the common masses, but the revolutionary leaders trickled like ice into his veins. Involuntarily, he shivered, taking a step back. The general lying on the ground in front of him had his head severed from his body, evidence that he had been a victim of the guillotine. His head had been so close to his body – within inches, in fact – that from afar, it had appeared it was still attached.

But, upon leaning a bit closer again, the lieutenant took note of the dark stains and rips on the uniform of the deceased man. He must've been wounded some other way, either before or after his decapitation. This much blood didn't come from a simple stab wound nor a trip to the guillotine, so it had to have come from a combination of the two.

Leaning down further and placing a careful gloved hand on the man's side, the commander knew he should start looking for a pocket holding some form of identification, but the shudder the body gave and the raspy cough stopped him cold, wrenching his hand away as if he had just been burned.

He didn't think it at all possible for the general on the ground to be alive. With multiple stab wounds, a detached head, and a river of blood painting a gruesome picture of his death, he simply didn't think it possible, and wondered if what he felt and heard was just a figment of his imagination. But after a few seconds of silence, the body shuddered again and another cough was uttered, before the arms braced themselves against the bloody pavement and lifted the body into a sitting position.

The lieutenant blinked at the sight, feeling the color drain from his face. In all his years of service to the army, he had never seen anything quite like this, and the sight made him a little sick to his stomach. Reaching out with a bloodstained hand, the body carefully picked the head up from the ground and held it to its chest. The face was recognizable, though the commander was unsure of exactly who it was, and despite the fact that he must've been white as a sheet, he waited, watching as the general gave another raspy cough and spat something onto the cobblestone: More blood.

Finally, the other man's eyes turned to him, alight despite the fact that he should be dead, and he murmured, "You look like you have seen a ghost, mon ami.” 

Though the words were meant to be playful, as evident by the slight raise if one of his eyebrows, his statement was without humor, and frankly, the commander couldn't blame him, given what he had probably been through. The lieutenant cleared his throat, seeing as how it had suddenly become so intensely dry, and murmured a weak, "P-Perhaps I have."

The man smiled, though it was weary. He stretched a bit rolling his shoulders back and sighing. "You wouldn't happen to have any wine on you, would you?"

The question was unexpected, and the commander simply blinked and stared blankly, trying to think of a response. "Uh...no offense sir, but I think wine should be the least of your worries right now..." He mumbled out, a little awkward, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

At this, the headless general laughed, and though it came out as a dry and tired sound, the commander thought he could detect a glimmer of amusement in the man's gaze. "Ah, mon ami, it will take more than this to kill me, I am afraid." The general grew puzzled at this; so de capitation and apparent stab wounds were ineffective in this man? Was he involved with some sort of witchcraft?

Suddenly, it hit the lieutenant why the man on the ground had looked so familiar. He wasn't a general at all, but someone much more important. It had taken him so long to recognize him; but then again, he didn’t look like himself at all. With hair normally so sleek and shining, now matted and tangled; clothing normally impeccably pressed, now fraying and ridden with holes; with a face normally so cheerful and clean, now smeared with blood and dirt, covered in a thin stubble, gaunt and wearied by the horrors of what he must’ve gone through to sustain such terrible injuries…all in all, he looked like a completely different man.

With a sigh, the commander forced his gaze to remain focused on the other, no matter how gruesome the sight was. “What has become of you, France?” He murmured, watching as the nation in front of him tapped the head he held in his hands, his eyes shifting to one side to avoid him. Somehow, he still seemed to have enough blood for his cheeks to go red with shame.

“If this is the only way to help my people…to let them be free…” He paused, his eyebrows drawing together as he brought his gaze back to the army officer, lifting his head slightly to better connect gazes with him. “Then let my body waste away.” His voice came out in a croak, and the general knew that despite his fears, the nation meant the words he was saying.

“Are you dying, France?” The question was sudden, and it seemed to startle the blond haired man as he flinched slightly at the words, but he quickly gathered himself to respond.

“At this point, I do not know. I thought I was going to – I was sure I was, in fact. So I laid here and waited for death to come…but it never did. I’d go as far as to guess now that I won’t die – that those revolutionaries, Robespierre and the so-called Committee of Public Safety won’t be the downfall of this country. But I suppose anything is possible and there is still time for me to fall apart. I already am, as you can tell.” He held up the head in his hands slightly higher.

The commander was silent for a moment, scarcely daring to breathe as he stared down at the pitiful sight before him. After a few moments of peace, he opened his mouth to fire off another barrage of questions. “So they did this to you, then? The Committee of Public Safety tried to execute their own nation?”

France chuckled dryly. “Of course. Who hasn’t tried to kill me these past few years? As soon as he got word that Marie Antoinette had been executed, Austria hurried over and brought along Britain and Prussia and they pummeled me into the ground. The citizens of my nation – be them peasants or working class or those committee members – they all only want one thing. Do you know what that is?”

The lieutenant didn’t respond, simply waiting for France to pick up where he had left off. “They want to spill my blood, to kill me, to see me fall. To them, I am nothing more than a symbol of the Ancien Régime, and of the monarchy that they all hate with a burning passion. They spit at me as I pass, point their guns at me, stab me, try and cut my head off – all the while laughing at my pain. They can’t stand an aristocrat, those revolutionaries; not even an aristocrat in the form of their own nation.”

Again, silence fell over the two. The lieutenant didn’t know if France had finished speaking, or if he was simply taking a break, or if perhaps he wanted a response. He simply kept his gaze focused on him, all but forgetting about the platoon of men that lay in wait just outside of the alleyway. France gave another cough, drawing the man out of his thoughts. Blue-violet eyes stared back into his own, almost as if studying him, before cautiously, the country asked, “Are you here to try and kill me, too?”

“No,” the army officer responded almost immediately, taking a slow step towards the nation. “I merely spotted the blood while out doing a patrol of the area with my platoon. It was an abnormal amount of blood and I had expected a large number of bodies. I went to investigate it by myself.” He explained. 

Again, France stayed silently, seeming to revert back to studying him, his eyebrows drawn together. “Well, now that you’ve seen what has happened,” he began. “Are you going to laugh at me like all the others?”

Letting out a slow, careful sigh, the commander took a few more steps towards the nation, kneeling down beside him, ignoring the blood that was going to stain his polished boots and white breeches. “You used to be so great, France. Weren’t you?”

The blond blinked, and the irritation that the lieutenant had not answered his question could be seen plainly on his face. “Yes, I was, but now I am merely a shadow of my former self. Nothing but a country torn apart by revolution, war, and bloodshed. This is all that is left of the great France.”

The nation’s eyes fled to the ground again, and the commander could clearly see every thought in the other’s head written on his face; he was weak, weary, tired of the fighting, but he was willing and determined to do whatever it was that would bring his people peace and prosperity. Was this a trait of all nations? Quietly, half-to-himself, the military officer chuckled. “I do not think you are a shadow of your former self, France. I can see everything in your mind in your eyes. You are still the same nation you once were – only wearied by war. You still want nothing but the best for the people of your nation, even if with it, comes your own destruction.”

Slowly, the body of the nation shrugged its shoulders, almost as if he were processing the words. “Of course I do,” he mumbled out, a little sheepishly. “That is all any of us nations want for our people. It is like our job, oui? To protect them and allow them to prosper and be happy, but I couldn’t even save them from themselves.” His tone was defeated and betrayed the inner turmoil he felt. It was then the commander realized that the nation before him had felt he was a failure, that the revolution was somehow his fault, and that he should’ve been able to stop it.

“Oui, that is true. You have not managed to save these people yet. Hundreds die each day at the hands of the Committee of Public Safety, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it. Not alone, anyways.”

At this, the nation’s eyes darted up to meet the lieutenant's own. France flashed a quick, humorless smile. “Not alone? Are you suggesting to me that you are the answer to this nation’s problems? That a mere human could succeed where a nation failed, and stop this bloodshed and make this country whole again?”

Quickly, the commander nodded, his aura of confidence never fading. “What you need, France, is a leader that will bring stability and peace to this land. I believe that I could be that leader, but I could never stop the war alone, just as you couldn’t.”

It took a few moments for France to process these words, before he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “S’il vous plait, monsieur, but I doubt that a mere officer in the army would ever gain control of a country. And even if you did manage to gain some sort of foothold within the shreds of government that remain, those revolutionaries would eat you alive.”

At this, the commander grinned. “Ah, I must thank you for your concern, France, but you see, I have a plan.”

Idly tapping on the sides of his severed neck with his fingertips, the nation raised an eyebrow. “Oh do you?” He replied sardonically. “Let’s hear it, then.”

The commander’s grin only widened, until in transformed into that of a smirk. Confidently, he announced, “I will transform you into a great empire, France, one that not only Europe will revere – but the entire world. I believe that you and I could rule it all. I will repair you from this broken land of bloodshed and build you up from the ground, into something greater than you have ever been – greater than the world has ever seen.”

Silence fell over them for a few moments as the lieutenant's grandiose plans seemed to weigh down the air. Slowly, France cracked a smirk, and amusement began to glitter in his once dull gaze. “You sincerely believe that, monsieur? I suppose you’ve got great ambitions, if nothing else. What is your name?”

"Bonaparte is my name. Napoleon Bonaparte. I was born in Corsica, trained here on the French mainland, and I fought against you, until you recognized potential in me and gave me a position in your army."

France cocked his head to the side, the smirk still playing on his lips. "Born in Corsica, eh? That would explain that silly little accent you've got there."

Napoleon's expression soured a bit. "The lads back in my school days used to ridicule me for my accent. Are you and your people all the same?"

The nation's expression only grew more playful in response, and he let out a laugh. "Perhaps we are. To be honest, I think your accent is fine, but you do speak too harshly for my beautiful language, mon ami. Try to soften your words. And don't be afraid to speak through your nose rather than your chest. It's a bit more nasally than you think."

Silence hung between the two as the commander's expression brightened slightly, though it still paled next to the exuberant grin the wounded nation managed to give him. "So, Bonaparte, what are your plans for the future? How do you plan to take control of this broken land, and how do you plan to rule it?"

Suddenly, a loud, though young voice echoed around the dimly lit alleyway. "Are you alright back there, sir?" It called, and immediately Napoleon turned to look; one of his platoon members had called for him. 

"I'm fine," he answered back. "But you and the rest of the unit head back to base. I've got business to attend to here." With a glance at France, he added, "Alone." There was the sound of shuffling and orders being shouted, and then marching. The troops were gone, leaving the nation and the commander alone in the alleyway.

"To answer your question, I plan to restore you and then build you up again. I want to transform you into an empire, France. A glorious empire that will stretch all across Europe – and eventually the world. To get started, of course, I'll need to advance in the ranks of the army more and make my name well known to the people of France and to the Committee of Public Safety."

Surprisingly, the nation's expression morphed into one of calm and curiosity as he listened, all traces of mockery gone from his face. Once he had finished, he gave a thoughtful hum. "You've thought about this a lot haven't you, mon ami?"

Napoleon blinked down at the nation, before giving a slow nod. "Oui, I have. It may sound silly to you, but I believe it is my destiny to walk hand-in-hand with you to greatness." He finished and lapsed into silence, his eyes boring down into the man below him, almost as if measuring his reaction. After a few moments, France couldn't help but let out a chuckle, using one hand to try and stifle the noise and the other to hold up his still-detached head.

Almost immediately, Napoleon's eyes narrowed and he scoffed, his gaze becoming cold and disinterested with the nation on the ground. "You laugh at me, just like everyone else does. No one believes that I will ever accomplish my goals and they laugh in my face. It doesn't matter who they are – be them peasants, royalty, or even nations, they laugh." He finished, glowering at the man below him, who just watched him with a quizzical stare, tilting his own head to one side as he would if it had even attached.

Slowly, he cracked a little smile, unable to smother the chuckle he gave. "Ah, mon ami, you are too defensive. I do not laugh at you, but with you." 

Napoleon only raised an eyebrow, the smirk on the country's face seeming to enrage him further. "I am not laughing," he snapped quickly, only to more amused chuckles. 

"Let me rephrase, then," France tried to pacify him, using his smoothest, softest tone he could while still making himself audible. "I see something in you, Monsieur Bonaparte. It is a determination the likes of which I've never seen before – one that can never be shaken. It is a very admirable trait. And the reason I laugh is...well, you might think it sounds silly, but the way you speak, I can't help but believe you, even when you give me no proof and only vague plans. There's just...something about you that makes me believe it's true."

Napoleon took this time to remain silent, once again as if observing the headless man, though his silence seemed to be less intimidating than it had before. Suddenly, he broke off into a little smile of his own. "You believe me? You really believe the words I'm saying?"

France simply stared at the other with a smile on his face, until his eyebrows shot up and again, despite the fact that he should have no blood left in his body, his cheeks flushed with color. "I would be nodding now, if I could, but...oui. I believe you. You should know that rebuilding a nation will not be an easy task, but...something tells me you are up to the challenge."

Napoleon moved a little closer, placing one arm under the nation's legs and the other under his torso and lifted him up, startling the other and forcing him to reach out with a bloody hand and hold the commander's neck for support, the other still supporting his severed head.

"That I am. I will do whatever it takes to achieve my goals." He affirmed, cradling France close enough to him that he could feel his frantic heartbeat against his chest, uncaring that the blood was smearing and staining his own uniform.

The nation merely chuckled. "How admirable you are...where are you taking me?"

Napoleon answered promptly. "My home. I'm going to clean you, give you fresh clothes, and sew that pretty head of yours back onto your body."

"Pretty, eh?" The nation echoed with an audible smirk in his voice, the hand on the lieutenant's neck tightening a bit, though not enough to become uncomfortable. "But how are you going to manage that? Are you also a tailor?" 

It was Napoleon's turn to laugh, turning and heading down the alleyway and towards the light, taking a moment to peer out and check that no one was there, before stepping out and heading down the street. "Pretty, meaning decorated. You sure like to paint your face and style your hair like an aristocrat, you know. Though, I think a bit of hair on your face suits you – but not as scruffy as you have it now, of course."

France merely hummed in response, cradling his head in his lap as he tried to shield his eyes from the sun.

"And I am no tailor, but I don't see the difficulty in simply sewing your head back on. I have experience with sewing, so you needn't be worried."

France merely responded with an, "Ah, I see." Before lapsing into silence, continuing to squint at the harsh afternoon sunlight. "Do you perhaps have any wine at your home? I have a terrible headache, and it’s only been made worse by this light."

Napoleon sighed, tilting the nation's body as to shield him from the sun more. "I have painkillers that you can take. You won't be drinking or eating anything until your head is firmly secured on your shoulders."

He had refocused his gaze on the street again, and did not see the forlorn gaze the nation gave him, accompanied by a pout, but he did hear his pitiful whimper. The lieutenant merely pulled him closer, almost as if some form if reassurance, continuing to walk towards his home in silence.

 

"You'll see, France," Napoleon murmured suddenly, rousing the nation from the slumber he'd almost fallen into, dragging his gaze up lazily to the other man, whose own eyes were fixed sharply on him. "When I'm done with you, no one will be laughing at you – or me. Not now, and not ever in the future. Never again."

At this, the nation let out a sleepy chuckle, relaxing further against the man holding. "Non, mon ami, that is impossible. No one is above a joke – not you, not me, not Robespierre and his little Committee – not even God. They will laugh at us. Everyone will laugh at us now, and will laugh at us after we are long gone. There won't be any stopping their laughter, Bonaparte."

He became silent again, his eyes fluttering closed against the bright sunlight. He seemed so tranquil, that for a moment, Napoleon wondered if the nation had passed in his arms, but the ever-present warmth of his body and his slow, steady breathing and his frantic heartbeat confirmed that he was still alive. His lips had morphed into a small smile, and after a few more footsteps, his eyes opened again and focused on the lieutenant as he parted his lips to speak.

"But...how about you and I become the laughing stocks of Europe together?"


End file.
